Sunday, November 18, 2007

All I could muster

All I could muster
Generally, I don’t really get hangovers. Sure, I feel a bit vague, but I don’t seem to experience any of the “blinding headache”/“feeling sick”/“can’t move” business which other humans engaged in the drinking business frequently report, and so I just get on with it. As I therefore normally have to push the boat almost out of sight of land in order to achieve so impressive an effect on my seemingly cement-mixer-styled metabolism, I tend to assume a fairly cavalier attitude towards the Demon Drink and its consumption, insisting always on nights out that “it’ll be fine”; however, as a matter of public record, I can confirm that my friend Steph’s wedding reception broke me. Well OK, I broke me. Well OK, the cachaça-based caipirinhas I seem to have made me go berserk on broke me. Anyway.

I only vaguely remember leaving the pub in which the reception had been held, stumbling around and texting other friends whom I thought might still be up and about in the mistaken belief that further fun might be a good idea, finding (fortunately) that none would respond to the call of the goon, hence having to satisfy the Hyde-like alter ego of my sozzled self by merely stuffing its face with Cadbury’s Bournville (mmm, gunge; the street-skag of the dark chocolate world) and then waking suddenly at 7am to find myself fully clothed - by which I mean still wearing even hat and shoes - lying horizontally across the foot of my bed, my brain stuck together with glue and someone apparently banging a shovel against the inside of my skull. I haven’t got myself into that kind of condition for a good while, and I’ve missed it not one jot.

Consequently on realising several hours later that fuelling my recovery with food was becoming imperative, and that the energy provided by the banana I’d eaten on a previous foray into the realms of concsciousness had dwindled utterly, and on subsequently discovering that even a Firezza delivery pizza (mmmmmmmm, pizza) was going to take seventy minutes to arrive due to the Sunday-lunchtime-ness of my predicament, I emerged “Creature from the Black Lagoon”-like from my pit, bent over like a haggard and wizened old cove, blinking against the light, in search of sustenance, only to discover that, due to the physical manifestations (or lack thereof) of my recent contempt for self-catering and the utterly ludicrous nature of the notion of my making it, in my current condition, as far as the shop barely a hundred yards from my flat, the only foodstuff of any substance which might serve to alleviate my suffering (oh! the torment) would have to be cooked, by me (oh! the indignity), and would have to be fashioned from the sole ingredients to hand, namely: some brown rice (organic, of course); a tin of dolphin-friendly tuna (oh! how friendly to the dolphins I picture those trawlermen, no doubt lovingly disentangling the crushed and lacerated creatures from the steel-bar-based nets, nurturing them back to good health in the on-board dolphin treatment departments before releasing them, once more glorious, to their natural habitat, wiping away specks of sentiment from those trawler’s eyes, eyes hardened by the harsh realities of a life at sea, yet still sensitive to the dolphin’s lonely plight); and some vegetable stock cubes.

The present fragility of my physiology dictated that no strong spices or hefty herb helpings be included ingredients, ensuring that the outcome of my efforts was nothing short of edible. It worked, though - I commend it to Internet.